Nightmare on Main Street
by CeCe Away
Summary: Tag to 6.01 Exile on Main Street. He's out of the game, out of hunting, but he won't take himself out of his brother's life.


**Can't help myself. This is a total indulgence on my part because I have no patience and want to know right now what's up with Sam's disconnect from 6.01. I have no illusions that this is the way the show will go or even remotely should. As a Supernatural addict, I'm just giving myself a quick fix to wait out next Friday. **

**Spoiler alert: Well, a little anyway. If you haven't watched the Season 6 premier yet, might want to skip this.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Good thing because I would resolve everything far too quickly. **

**Nightmare on Main Street**

**Tag to 6.01 Exile on Main Street **

He doesn't know what he's doing here. He's out of the game, out of hunting, but he'll be damned before he takes himself out of his brother's life. Sam turned his back on him for an entire year, letting Dean believe he was suffering, and that hurt. It hurt like a hot poker to his gut . . . but, it was Sam.

Sam had called last night to let him know he and the Campbells were leaving in the morning, another job—no details—just that he wouldn't be around for a while. Dean rolled his eyes at that. Wouldn't be around for a while, like what? Another entire year?

"Okay, Sam," Dean had said. "Um, thanks for the head's up."

"Yeah." The voice on the other end of the phone was quiet. The new Sam scared Dean, though he couldn't place a finger on why. He was quiet, self-assured . . . watchful. Detached. The hunter Dean, and he supposed his dad, had always wanted Sam to become. So why did it hurt so bad to see him like that? Able to stand on his own. Hunt on his own, because face it, those arrogant relatives of theirs couldn't measure up to the hunter his brother was. Sam was a hero. Had saved the entire effin planet.

And as angry and unsure as Dean felt, he wasn't going to let Sam leave him again with just a "thanks for the head's up" over the phone. Hell, he hadn't even told his brother to watch out for himself. Since when did he let Sam go off without a warning to be careful? _Since when did he let Sam go off without him? _

So he'd left Lisa in the bed and just driven. It was stupid. He had no idea what he could possibly say without looking like an anal dork, but Sam was leaving in the morning, hunting who knows what with a bunch of know-it-alls that didn't know jack about how to watch Sam's back. _Be careful, Sammy._ That's all he wanted to say. Face to face. Remind his brother to just be careful as though that would cast a circle of protection by sheer will alone.

He jammed the truck into Park outside the run-down house and just sat there for a moment, glancing at the muted light spilling from a few of the windows. Typical hunters, a nocturnal bunch, most likely still going over details though it was late. Dean scrubbed a hand over his jaw. What was he doing? The Campbells were going to look at him like he was a bleeding heart idiot. Well tough. Maybe he was. He didn't give a rat's potatoes about any one of them, just Sam.

Even more angry now, he slammed the truck door behind him and strode up the walkway.

The first scream jerked him to a stop. His muscles seized up like he'd just taken a plunge into frigid water.

What the hell? The second scream wrenched him into movement. Sammy. He'd know that sound anywhere.

Not waiting to see if the door was locked, Dean rammed it with his shoulder, throwing it open and instantly three sets of eyes turned to him. Christian, Mark and Samuel—all with weapons turned on him from shotguns to a crossbow. What the hell? They were all just sitting around, cleaning weapons while his brother screamed his lungs out?

On cue, Sam cried out, long and painful, coming from behind the double doors where Dean had first woken up from the djinn's poison a few days ago. Dean felt the tremble roll through his body, following a long shudder of Sam's moan. It was like standing outside the panic room all over again. Dean started striding forward.

"Dean." Samuel made a motion for Mark and Christian to lower their weapons. "Son, you shouldn't be here."

"I . . ." His jaw was clenched so tight he could barely speak. He itched to have a weapon in his own hand. His gaze flicked to the table. Plenty of them there. "What are you doing to my brother?"

"Nightmares." Samuel moved to stand in front of Dean, block his entrance to those doors. "A man doesn't come out of hell without losing sleep."

Dean took that in, relaxed the grip on his anger at these men, and nodded tightly. Was Sam's hell so bad that he still screamed like that after a year? "How often?"

Both Mark and Christian looked away. Samuel stared right at him, a man who knew giving a punch quick and hard was more merciful than hesitating. "Every damn night. We take shifts, make sure he doesn't hurt himself, doesn't go in too deep."

Every muscle in Dean's body went slack. He staggered back, forcing every ounce of his control to remain on his feet. His pulse thudded with the agonized shrieks coming from behind those doors.

Those doors that exploded outward, carrying a frazzled Gwen out. "It's bad. Getting worse. I need the tranqs." She flinched, seeing Dean.

Dean's head snapped toward Samuel. "You tranquilize him?"

Samuel's lips firmed into a hard line. His palm snaked around Dean's bicep. "Only when we have to."

"Well tell me. How often do you have to?" Unbelievable. They thought sedating Sam helped. Dean had been where Sam was. He knew sleeping aids only made it worse, made the nightmares that much more vivid. "Damn it." He shook out of Samuel's grasp, heading once more for that room.

Christian glanced up from where he remained casually sitting, resumed cleaning his gun. "You don't want to go in there. Just turn around and leave. We got this."

Dean's gaze turned on the man, his so-called cousin. He felt the stiffness in his face, let it set. "Hell I don't."

With that, he walked past Gwen, glaring, and strode into that room.

Sam writhed on that small bed, arms tied to its frame with strips of cloth, muscles coiled and bunched. Sweat coated his skin, soaked his T-shirt, stuck his wet hair against his face. On the tail end of another scream, Sam bucked upwards.

"Stop. Stop. Please stop." His voice was a hoarse scratch of sound. "Stop hitting him. Stop! You can't be here. God, leave, leave. Get away. He's killing you! Dean, he's killing you . . ."

At the sound of his name, the inflection of hurt, Dean flew across the room, was on his knees, grabbing Sam's shoulders.

"No. Dean, no. Oh my God, you have to leave. Stop hitting him! Stop. God, stop! Can't hold him. Leave, you have to leave."

_Not gonna leave you. _Dean closed his eyes, so desperately weary. Sam's nightmare wasn't about Hell. Not at all. His brother dreamed about him, about Lucifer beating Dean with Sam's own fists. Oh, God, what a stupid ass he'd been. No wonder Sam seemed so cut off, could barely look at him for more than a moment without tearing his gaze away. He knew Sam better than anybody, knew the way the kid's mind worked. Sam couldn't look at Dean without seeing himself unable to stop Lucifer from beating him within an inch of his life. Plain and simple. That spiel he'd given about leaving Dean alone so he could do the normal tango was a butt load of crap.

He should have seen it. Should have known that Sam relived that moment every night of his life and couldn't bring himself to stare at it during his waking hours too. Well tough patotties. From experience Dean knew the only way to beat this kind of nightmare was to ram straight through it.

"No, Dean." Sam tossed on the bed.

"Sam!" Dean growled, hoping to snap his brother out of the nightmare's grip. "Hey! Wake up."

Dean made short work of untying the rag around Sam's closet wrist and was immediately grabbed and hauled in close. Sam's eyes were open, red-rimmed and terrified. "You have to go. Get out of here. Dean."

Dean grabbed Sam's forearm, made his voice calm. "Not going anywhere. It's not real, Sam. It's over. I'm here."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, his face pinched. Arching his neck back against the bed, he cried, great wrenching sobs. "You have to, you have to. I can't hold him. I'm trying, but I can't. He's killing you!"

Tears streamed down Dean's face. He reached over Sam's stomach to untie his other wrist. "No, Sam. He didn't kill me. I'm right here. It's over. You stopped him. Remember, Sam. Please remember. You stopped him. I promise you did. You stopped him."

Sam quieted, his shoulders shook in silent shudders.

"You stopped him, man. You saved me. I promise. I promise. I went to Lisa. Please, Sam, wake up. He didn't kill me."

The eyelids slowly lifted, moved around the room before settling back on Dean. They widened in shock for a moment and then slowly, fraction by fraction Dean watched as Sam stiffened, constructing his carefully made mask back into place.

Dean grabbed his sibling's shoulders and leaned in close, inches from his face. "Nuh-uh, none of that. I've already seen it. I know what you're hiding behind door number one." He shook him when Sam's gaze shifted away. "Don't block me out, Sam. Not anymore. You look at me. Look at me." His gaze bored into Sam's face until the young man's eyes finally hitched back to his. "Cas healed me. Nothing broken. I'm fine. Look. Just look."

The hard exterior cracked. Liquid eyes roamed Dean's face until finally finally there was a loosening, a tiny fissure in those depths and it all came crumbling down. Desperate seeking arms flew around Dean's waist as Sam pressed his face against Dean's stomach.

Dean grasped onto Sam just as fiercely, drawing him as close as he could get.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Sam wailed into Dean's shirt. "I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't stop it."

"Hey, hey." Dean stroked Sam's hair. "But you did. You did, Sam. Nobody else could have."

"Why didn't you leave? You wouldn't leave and I was killing you."

"We're stronger together. You know that."

Sam's head lifted. Tear filled eyes looked up. A shaky hand rose. Dean grasped it, pulled Sam's hand the rest of the way up and let the long fingers splay over his cheek, feel the unbroken skin for himself.

"I'm so sorry," Sam whispered. "Last year . . . I came to you first, but I couldn't . . . all I saw . . ."

"I know, Sammy. I get it."

Sam nodded against him, let his cheek press farther against Dean's belly. Dean just held him, lightly stroking his hair, his shoulder, touching his sibling in the manner he'd been aching to for a year, soothing all the hurt away. Somewhere along the way, Sam drifted off, his breathing even and steady, and Dean shifted his legs out from under him to sit on the floor, keeping his arms around his sleeping brother and closed his eyes.

Sometime later they shifted open and Dean's hazy gaze took in Samuel leaning against the doorjamb, watching. Samuel lifted a mug. "You know, that's the first hours of uninterrupted rest I've ever seen the kid have." Their grandfather frowned, leaving the you-should-come-with-us-for-your-brother unsaid.

Dean pressed his lips firmly together, feeling the weight of choices crashing down on him. Abandon Lisa and Ben or abandon Sam. He closed his eyes for a few more hours of sleep, for himself, for Sam, knowing that either choice was going to shatter his heart.


End file.
